


He Cares

by spickandspock



Series: Caring [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spickandspock/pseuds/spickandspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cared too much, therefore he kept it alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Cares

Three years. Thirty-six months. One thousand ninety-five days. Twenty-six thousand, two hundred eighty hours. One million, five hundred seventy-eight thousand, eight hundred minutes. Ninety-four million, six hundred eight thousand seconds. In essence, three years is a long time, even more so when most of the one thousand ninety-five nights are spent sleepless, hungry and hurting but perservering because there was no other good (if such a thing existed) choice. Three years spent alone, driven by rage and a need to protect what he saw as his; John. Three years that were finally, blessedly over. 

The former consulting detective huddled on the stoop, knocking at the door and hoping he would be heard. Mrs. Hudson never came to answer. He brought up a saved file that told him that the landlady was most likely out playing bridge with her sister and her friends. Tuesdays always meant bridge. He stored the file away and rapped once more, knowing that John would most likely be home and would let him in. 

When the door was opened, he immediately knew something was wrong. That was not his John. His John was not stoic, his eyes had never been so cold, and he hadn't been limping before he had gone. A shiver danced down his spine. John had changed. So had he. 

The taller man was too thin, thinner than he had been before. Though his grey eyes were sharp as ever, they were bloodshot and highlighted by dark rings of mottled black and purple. His John would have said something by now, if not an incredulous question of how he was alive, then at least a half-strained joke about his cheekbones. Nothing came but silence. He had expected more. 

Though he was half-chilled from the cold, he managed a short explanation of his survival and how it was to save the ex-army doctor and the others. John said nothing, but ushered him inside and climbed up the staircase, his cane a stark reminder of the damage done as it thunked on all seventeen steps. He followed suit, sadness lingering in his eyes before it was wiped away by his usual cool mask. 

John was seated in his armchair by the time Sherlock entered the flat, a cup of tea at his lips. The detective was given the order to make his own tea, should he want any (after all, it would he quite useless for the doctor to make it only to have it grow cold and go to waste). 

Sherlock didn't want any tea. Sherlock wanted his John back, because he cared far too much to let the man die and let this new, hard man take his place.


End file.
